The House Whisperer

Many years ago my father was getting a glass of water from the kitchen sink when just as the liquid touched his lips, he calmly exclaimed,

“This water is too cold.”

Immediately, he darted for the basement. The fact that the water flowing from the kitchen sink was cold might appear a plus to a layperson, but to the trained lips, something was amiss.

Sure enough a hose on the washing machine had sprung a leak. My father’s intuition saved us from a massive, damaging flood. Some people are tuned into the rhythms of nature. They can sense a season change in the way the wind blows. Others feel the ebb and flow of the sea. They know when to take warning and when to delight. My father was tuned into the house, always reading the fingerprint of chaos, staying one step ahead of calamity.

My training began early on. When I was eleven, my father came home with a new lock for the front door. Planning on installing it the following weekend, he left it on the kitchen table at my usual seat. Over bowls of Captain Crunch as the week wore on, I studied the lock. By mid week, I had it out of the box. On Friday I started disassembling the lock on the front door. I found that I had to modify the hole a bit. We never had any real tools, just what my father bought to do the current job. I unearthed a circular file on a shelf in the basement which I used to elongate the hole. The lock was installed by dinner time on Friday, freeing my father to putter around in his victory garden all weekend. He was delighted. In retrospect, my dad probably was hoping I would take the reins and start my journey as his DIY protege.

My father often bragged that he "wired up the whole basement." The problem was most of the outlets eventually quit working. As kids playing in the cellar, we all knew which plugs worked and which ones didn't. When I was twelve, I pulled the fuse to the circuit in the fuse box then removed the plates on the disabled outlets. I traced the wiring until I found a disconnect. The fix was simple. Back then, I tested for voltage on a circuit by touching the leads to a makeshift socket and bulb I wired up. I never shocked myself in my youth which in itself was quite an achievement since back then we didn't own a voltmeter.

When my wife, Christine, and I purchased our first home, I continued my apprenticeship as a home improvement guy. My extensive trial by fire education in the fine art of do it yourself included everything from bathroom and kitchen renovations to roofing and building stone walls. I constructed a deck, hung drywall, and wired 3-way switch circuits. There was nothing I wouldn’t take on. When we moved to our current house, the plan was to purchase a new home which was mostly complete so I didn’t have to endlessly toil on the house. Somehow that didn’t work out even though our current house was new construction. After all these years like my father, I’ve become a house whisperer.

Once, I got up from bed because I smelled something odd. It turned out that it was food discarded in the trash cans instead of the compost bin. I never put perishables in the landfill. They always go into the compost which reduces our waste by a third. As I climbed into bed, I reminded Christine not to put food in the trash.

“You can smell that in the garage from here?” she asked.

I cocked my head then answered, "Broccoli, eggshells and some cheese. Wensleydale I believe."

The other day over breakfast, Christine asked me if the sprinkler shut off.

“Ten minutes ago,” I answered.

“How do you know that? You’ve been sitting here for an hour.”

“I heard it,” I explained.

When the valve closes, a slight increase in flow noise can be detected. It's just shy of a water hammer. I’m tuned into the symphony of sounds associated with toilet flushes. There is a distinct pattern of notes one comes to expect when the loo is purged. Knowing the proper song of a flushing toilet saves on a runaway crapper flooding the leaching field. My father knew the noises of his furnace. Each sound during the fire up and light off was familiar to him so that an errant reverb meant something was awry. We have a geothermal heating system that makes very little noise. Instead I can tell all is well by sampling the air emitted from the register. Once when the compressor motor was going south, I detected an odd odor similar to the smell of a Lionel train transformer. Sure enough, the motor was burning up.

I’ve become one with my house like Tony Stark and the iron man suit. That’s because every job site around here contains a testable amount of blood from misfired hammer strikes or wayward projectiles emanating from power tools. It wouldn’t be hard for the district attorney to link me to a crime I committed due to the amount of blood evidence absorbed by my home.

Some of my friends have asked me to fix problems with their houses, mostly poorly wired circuits. Even though in my town I’m not allowed to port my skill set to a house other than my own, I’ve straightened out gaffed up wiring many times. Once I fixed an inoperable emergency furnace shutoff and fire cut out in my friend's house. I’m sure the initial installation was never tested by the building inspector. Even though the law doesn't allow me to fiddle with the wiring in another person's home due to my lack of licensing, his house would have certainly burned to the ground without the safety equipment properly installed.

My oldest son, Aidan, is not interested in home improvement. I once asked him what he is going to do when he buys his first house and discovers something is broken. He said,

"I'm gonna inherit our house. Everything in it is already fixed."

I didn't explain to him that it doesn't work that way. Things that are operable today, break tomorrow, but he'll learn the hard way. Besides, he can inherit only half of his childhood home ever since his younger brother was born.

William is more interested in fixing things. He likes to go to the hardware store with me. He asks questions now and then like "where does our electricity come from," and "where does water go when it drains from the tub." I suppose with his brother I was too hands off. I'm installing a new thermostat right now.

Maybe I'll leave it on the kitchen table next to Willy's cornflakes.

Editor's Note: Originally published on July 17, 2018.

A Parent’s Journey

“You have to find your balance.”

In retrospect teaching my son to ride a bike in a public place was a dumb idea. Every kid who has mastered a two-wheeler feels the urge to bear witness to a lesson while shouting advice authoritatively.

“I didn’t know I lost it,” Aidan noted.

Aidan was in kindergarten, old by today’s standard of achievement for bicycle riding. I thought the high school parking lot mid summer would be a suitable venue so I loaded his bike in along with a pocket full of Band-Aids, and we headed out. Aidan has always been a bit self conscious. He can play a complicated trumpet solo in front of a large audience, but dislikes running on a track if others are present. Knowing when to conform and when to buck the system is the real challenge of parenting.

"I don't think I can do it," he relayed.

“Just keep pedaling."

Aidan Crashing

He struggled, crashed, became exasperated all in front of a growing group of little twerps who spewed advice about locating one’s lost equilibrium. He wanted to quit, but I encouraged him to keep going. He didn’t master two-wheeled human propulsion that afternoon, but he tried. Eventually, he found the allusive stability.

When he was three years old, we took him to a swim class touted as the best place for toddlers. After a few lessons, we changed to a different pool. His swim instructor ejected him from the water for complaining about the temperature. After the lesson she said,

“He’s four going onto five. He should be able to swim in water that cold.”

The pool was pretty darn frigid, the temperature that competitive swimmers prefer. I informed her that he just turned three, and the pool was, in fact, cold. I pulled him from the swim lesson due to the insensitive nature of his instructor. I didn’t ask for a refund. Eventually, he learned to swim at the local YMCA.

The path of parenthood is blazed with revelations. Some things are hardwired like waking in the middle of the night when a newborn stirs. Prior to fatherhood I could’ve slept through a Saturn V launch. Now I'm up and primed if I hear the slightest peep. Before children if someone told you that you would have to hold a 20 pound sack of potatoes all day as you wandered through an amusement park, you wouldn't believe it was possible. Somehow when the weight is your baby, you carry it effortlessly without a care.

Being a parent involves making subtle decisions on what’s best when the path is overgrown. Whether it was going to be a tough love or a whirlybird approach, I was bent on being a father who always talked to his kids. My mother and father rarely spoke to us. They preferred to yell their parental advice into our deaf ears.

When Aidan was very young, I explained the proper use of the words "please" and "thank you." Satisfied that I was a new age role model parent with superior communication skills, I was eager to move onto other aspects of my son's development. Perhaps concern for others, respect for nature and maybe someday cranial topics like life after death. It wasn't long before I found myself repeating the common courtesy lesson once again. I thought that we sufficiently covered this topic already. What I didn't know as a new parent is that every lesson imparted on your children must be followed by the instruction,

"Repeat 1000 times."

I didn’t always give the best advice even though I had the best intentions. In middle school, I wanted Aidan to stand up to the bullies. Middle schoolers are a sordid bunch. Not yet adults, no longer children, their predicament brings out the worst behavior as they work out the pecking order. Each time Aidan reported bullying, he suffered a backlash. This alienated my son with many of the more aggressive kids. The amount of retaliatory torment Aidan endured made his quest for equity not worth the effort. I should’ve told him just to fly under the radar because in the end even the school administrators grew tired of his input. Now, in high school when he walks into the bathroom to find a kid being shaken down, he keeps to himself.

Today when I talk to my son it usually involves some kind of eletronics. I've grown accustomed to texting Aidan whenever I need to speak with him. We don't talk as much as we did when he was younger now that he is busy with all the things high school requires of him. It was the same for me and my father. When I was my son’s age, I didn't have time for my dad. I was too busy moving forward. Ten years would pass before our relationship as father and son rekindled mainly because I needed someone to talk to as I navigated a life of unrequited love. Later I realized that my relationship with my father was temporal, and I got in a few years to make amends. Today, I would give anything to have just five minutes in his presence once again.

Aidan in Boot Camp

In the summer of 2018, we dropped Aidan off at Fort Devens for two weeks of boot camp as part of his training for Sea Cadets, a junior military organization. There are no participation trophies in Sea Cadets. You roger up or roger out. What appeals to me as a parent is that in Sea Cadets they push you until you find your limit, then they build you up. They shave your head so you look like everyone else. You learn when to get up in the morning, what to wear, when to eat, what to say, and you run in formation to every evolution. It’s a far cry from his online gaming world which he resides in most days now.

When Aidan showed interest in the military, I checked out Sea Cadets to ensure that it was properly run. I found the officers in charge to be a thoughtful but tough group of mostly prior military members. The cadets themselves exhibited the very essence of inclusiveness. On Aidan's first drill, several cadets introduced themselves as they asked him his name then invited him to sit with them. A year later Aidan earned Sea Cadet ribbons in academics and volunteer service. Now in bootcamp, the only way we were allowed to communicate with him was via the US Postal Service.

Each day my wife, Christine, poured through the pictures on the Sea Cadet Facebook page to catch a glimpse of her son. His bald head from the close shave they gave him made him hard to identify. For years, I've always been able to talk to my son when I wanted. Most of the time at night he laid his head down in his bed in his room, save the few times he's stayed over a friend's house. But now, we've gone through a week with only a brief letter in which he indicated that the training was tough in humid weather. I found it hard to endure such little information. I was glad when he finally called, but I knew a call was bad news.

"I'm in the hospital wing," he said.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Dehydrated."

"What did the doctor say?"

"Go back to training, but I don't know."

"What's the matter?" I asked unhesitatingly.

"I don't think I can do it," he answered.

I didn't have long to talk with him. I had to say something to help him through uncertainty. I felt helpless. All I could come up with was,

“Just keep pedaling.”

"Okay," he responded.

As we said our goodbyes and the line went dead, I wished we had more time, but in life you always have less than you think. We weren't allowed to see him until after graduation when he marched in formation onto the parade ground. Never before have I wanted the days to pass so effortlessly that I went to bed early just to get on with it. Christine continued to scan Facebook daily. I kept telling myself that he'll be fine, that he'll see it through to the end. When the day came, I struggled to find him in formation with his shipmates as they marched onto the parade ground. Christine picked him out readily. As he passed before us I knew that he was marching forward into his future and away from mine.

And once again, he had found his balance.

Editor's Note: Aidan recently graduated from high school and will be attending Worcester Polytechnic Institute majoring in Computer Science in the fall. Originally published on July 10, 2018.

Medical Screening for the Obsessive Compulsive

A few years ago, I was in the office of an ear, nose and throat doctor for a sinus condition that made me dizzy. It turned out that it was a condition called benign paroxysmal positional vertigo caused by a tiny calcium carbonate crystal lodged in part of the inner ear called the utricle. I also complained that my digestion was off. My doctor was a young guy who obviously weightlifted because he showed up to the examination room wearing a muscle shirt which was two sizes too small. On his head he wore an endoscope that he flipped into position when examining my sinuses. He seemed to flex every time he spoke. After looking in my ear with an otoscope, he squeezed both pecks as he announced authoritatively,

"The dizziness is ALS and the stomach problems is Crohn's disease."

I was floored. What I thought was a sinus problem was now going to put me in a wheelchair, and I would check out of the cosmos like Stephan Hawkins except I wasn't nearly as smart as he was. Later I recalled the same experience when I had a lower GI in my twenties. That invasive test was the precursor to the colonoscopy which no 24 year old should have had to endure, but I did because my doctor said so. Further tests were all negative. I was relieved but not before I waited a week for results as I practiced typing my blog with one of those unicorn head appendages. I really sweated it out.

Another time I went to a local neurologist for migraines. He was one of those doctors from the middle east which in itself didn't bother me. After examining me for five minutes, he said,

"You had a stroke."

I had just turned fifty and was in good shape. A stroke just didn't seem probable. He had me endure my sixth MRI in three years which revealed nothing so he declared,

"It must be a tumor."

I was a mess. Dr. Sinbad added,

"You can be my patient for the next fifteen years, then I'll retire."

What the fuck did that have to do with the price of dates in Yemen? Further tests and more waiting turned out all negative. Last year my primary healthcare physician convinced me that I should participate in a "routine hepatitis screening." I didn't have any symptoms, but as he put it,

"We have a treatment now so we're screening everyone."

So I took the test, waited ten days and sure enough it came back negative. I was pretty confident that I didn't have hepatitis because apart from having no symptoms, I never shared needles with drug addicts or socially kissed anyone but my wife. Still I did worry because that is the way my wiring works. I usually plan for the worst, expect the least and prepare for impending disaster. It's not rational, but you can't explain obsessive behavior. It takes ahold of your senses and frames reality in a manner that summons all your fears and folly that lie just beneath your rational self. I vowed never again to let a doctor convince me to take a test in which I was asymptomatic.

Recently during my yearly physical my doctor asked,

"Have you ever had an HIV test?"

"Once a year for twenty years when I was in the navy," I answered.

"Did you ever test positive?" he inquired.

"No," I said, then added, "My wife was tested four times. Twice for each pregnancy."

"Well, you should get tested again."

Now a few months ago while travelling out of state, I was pulled over on the highway by a very imposing looking state trouper who asked me,

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"No," I answered.

The officer, who was at least 6 1/2 feet tall, stern faced with a chiseled jaw, looked in the back seat of my car while saying authoritatively,

"Do you have any guns?"

"No," I chuckled nervously.

"Are you sure?" he continued.

His uniform was impeccable. I noticed an expert marksman ribbon on his chest. He seemed so sure of himself. In a moment of lapsed judgment, coupled with a sizeable amount of stupidity, I answered.

"I hope so."

That led to me being asked to exit the vehicle while a canine unit was called in so Dinkles could smell my car. At least they didn't handcuff me. As backup arrived, four cops surrounded me as three more snooped around my car. As all that authority bore down on my aging psyche, I thought,

"I sure hope they don't find any guns."

Now I don't own a gun, but I respect your right to do so. If I had a gun, I would accidently shoot myself taking it out of the packaging it came in. So there was no chance a gun would turn up in my car unless one came with my vehicle unbeknownst to me which I considered even though that scenario seemed unlikely. That's the nature of illogical fears. They don't make sense which is why in retrospect, they're so stupid.

So here I was again, my doctor in his white lab coat, his name stenciled in blue script across his left breast, me sitting atop an examination table wearing one of those open in the back garment, designed to make you feel insignificant. I looked up and saw all his degrees and accolades pinned to the walls. His reasoning for why I should undergo an HIV test at my age faded in my head as did the fact that I've been with the same person for twenty-four years and have had more HIV tests in the military than an award winning adult film star. He was less concerned about the things that were actually ailing me as he pushed the HIV test. Now my idea of risky behavior involves pulling the knife towards my thumb when I carve scrimshaw or perhaps waiting ten minutes to save while I type.

"Sure, " I said. After all what did I have to worry about?

One time I couldn't sleep so I was up late surfing through the thousands of television channels we never watch when I came across Howard Stern interviewing a porn actress who was attempting to beat the record for the number of sexual encounters in an hour. She was shooting for over a hundred or something. She narrated a video showing a horde of guys with their John Thomases pixelized queueing up like they were in a grocery check out line. Stern asked,

"How come some of these guys aren't wearing condoms?"

To which the woman answered, "They're in the business."

It took me a while to fathom that porn actors see themselves as cleaner than the rest of us because they get frequently tested. It doesn't matter that they've had 200 times as many sexual partners as well as engaged in some pretty fucked up shit. They're just cleaner. This is why Stormy Daniels thinks that we should believe her claim that Trump, a germaphobe, had an affair with her while his new wife was pregnant with their son. I think Trump's oldest son, Donald Junior, whose wife suddenly divorced him due to his supposed “frugalness”might have been stupid enough to dip little Donald into the eye of the Storm. I think Trump might have been protecting his son, and when his son's wife found out she decided to punch out of Trump Towers. We'll just have to wait for Stormy's tell all book which I'm sure will be a fascinating read if she can minimize the grammatical errors and number the pages consecutively.

My test results are still not in. I have to say that in typical obsessive compulsive fashion, I've sweated it out even though my behavior is a little less risky than an ugly nun. Most people think when you say you are worried about an HIV tests that you got drunk one night in Vegas after a particularly nasty argument with your wife and woke up in a seedy hotel wearing women's panties with whip cream under your castanets. I submit that hasn't happened. I've never even been to Vegas.

The part that bothers me most of all about all of these medical tests is that none of them are designed to actually make us healthier. We are just billable hours in a healthcare system originally designed to reduce the amount of care we receive. If you don't think so just listen to this tape of President Richard M. Nixon chatting with Domestic Affairs Counsel, John Ehrichman, in regards to the profitability of Health Maintenance Organizations (HMOs), unearthed by Michael Moore for his movie Sicko.

Life becomes more immediate when your vessel begins to break down, and you shift from achievement to survival. The truth is that our vast medical system is doing next to nothing to delay that day from coming.

Update: After waiting ten days, another useless test came back negative.

Update: Stormy Daniels’s book came out in which she dedicated four pages to body shaming President Trump. She later apologized.

Editor's Note: Originally published on September 18, 2018.

Pictures I Took

Recently, my first ever attempt at arranging an exhibition of my photography was rejected by the gallery because my art is “not socially relevant.” Perhaps the title of my show is too mundane. I called it “Pictures I Took.” Apparently, I have no actual message that I want to explore, no awareness to raise. I should have photographed struggling immigrants on the border or sea life entangled in garbage. My equipment was too low tech too since most of my pictures were taken with my phone. I was going to shoot cellophane with a Hasselblad, but the one hour photo developing booth in my town is a sushi stand now. With little recourse, I elected to dump my boring artwork on all of you.

So here is my art show that never was.

"Red Pail" is my wife, Christine, and son, Aidan, on the beach in 2006. I made a watercolor out of the picture, much to the dismay of the artist's community. Watercolor is my favorite medium, one in which I will never master. You have to paint flawlessly. It's not like you can just paint over your mistakes like with oils. Now with Photoshop, we all can be Georgia O'Keefe.



Aidan in front of "Spring Flowers" in 2005. A friend of mine told me what kind of flowers these were, but I forgot.



"Snowground" captures Aidan in the snow in 2006. He and I often frequented playgrounds in the winter.

"Train Show" is a picture of Uncle John and Aidan in 2008 watching a video of cows moving onto a Lionel cattle car from a platform.



"William the Lumberjack," our youngest stares confidently into the vast wilderness.

"Used Books" has Aidan paying homage to a lamp in 2007. I like the one point perspective.

"Lucy's Kite" is my friend's mother at Harkness Memorial State Park in Waterford, Connecticut in 2007. The prevailing winds by the shore shaped the tree in the background.



"A Quiet Moment" for Aidan in 2003. I hadn't yet installed the baseboard molding in the rooms of our first house. I appear in a cameo out the window to the left of the barn.



"Light Board" has William playing at a children's museum in 2012. I liked the contrast between the lines of his shirt and the pegs of light.

"Binky Stare" is the picture we used to announce William's baptism in 2011. His eyes were so expressive even though they were only three months old.



"Bricks" was taken in the evening in Westerly, Rhode Island in 2007 by the Pawcatuck River. I told Aidan to "do something cool." Note the cross in the walkway.



"Stained Glass" was taken somewhere in Maryland in 2007 while visiting friends. I liked the matching windows with staircase leading to someplace special.



"Christine at Work" has my wife in the dining room of our first house in 2003. I was installing an electrical box for the chandelier we would hang later. She seems so peaceful.



"Wooden Bridge" finds Aidan at a wildlife park in California in 2006. Note the contrasting lines of the walls and planking.

"Breechway" has Aidan in Dover, England in 2007 looking to the sea.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on September 4, 2018.

On Memorial Day

Yesterday our oldest son, Aidan, sounded Taps at a Memorial Day morning observance in Warren, Rhode Island. So perfect was his playing that the town fire chief asked to inspect the bell of his bugle. He was checking for a recording device which is sometimes used when a live bugler is not available. Seeing that the instrument was devoid of any electronics, he congratulated Aidan on his flawless performance. I know Taps is only a handful of notes, but if you have ever stood at attention for any length of time and then were required to do something in front of a crowd, you know how difficult it is. Even the Principle Bulgar with the United States Army Band tripped up on the sixth note while playing Taps at President Kennedy's funeral on a cold day in November in 1963. I've occasionally wrote about Aidan's exploits in uniform rendering the two dozen notes at military services. On this Memorial Day, I am posting Aidan's college admissions essay which describes playing Taps from his perspective.

A Bugler's Journey

In 2016, I was thirteen years old and navigating the halls of middle school. I had my backpack, my books, my laptop, my friends and my trumpet. I enjoyed STEM classes especially computer programming, but I looked forward to jazz band every Tuesday after school. My music instructor was a retired senior chief who spent many years playing trumpet in the Coast Guard Band. One afternoon when I was waiting for my trumpet lesson, I listened to my teacher play a familiar tune. I had heard those notes before. I knew they were a bugle call played at military services called “Taps.” As he played, I picked up my trumpet and awkwardly echoed his notes.

“Not bad,” he said as he motioned me into the practice room.

My instructor suggested that I look into organizations that arrange buglers to play Taps at military services. He explained that Congress mandated that color guards from each branch of the military shall be available for funeral services, but they lacked musicians to play Taps. As a compromise, many services employed a prop bugle that plays recorded tunes at the push of a button. That evening I searched online and found Bugles Across America (BAA). I contacted the director for my state who arranged an audition at a public park half way between our respective towns. On the day of my performance, I found myself outside on a clear, cool Saturday morning in an unfamiliar grassy field playing the now well rehearsed string of twenty-four notes. Many people stopped to listen. I recall some rendering a salute. The director gave me some pointers. He also had his trumpet which he played flawlessly.

“Very clean and crisp. Just slow it down,” he said.

I looked at him intently as I anticipated that he was about to tell me to try again next year. Instead he said, “Welcome aboard!”

On that bright fall morning with pastel leaves twisting free in the gentle breeze, announcing the coming cold weather, I learned that I was the youngest member of Bugles Across America in my state. As proud as I was that day, I hadn’t a clue I was about to embark on a journey that would carry me through my teens and change my life forever.

My first mission was an hour away at a cemetery that was blanketed by snow the night before. I was wearing a navy blue suit and tie with shoes that weren't made for walking in snow. My training for services had readied me in theory. I was to stand far off from the color and honor guards as Taps is to be heard from a distance. When an honor guard is present it is easier to know when to start since the bugler always follows the third volley. With only a color guard, the military members who fold and present the flag, one must have line of sight for a signal. As I took my position, it started to snow. Lightly at first then in large, spiraling flakes. I stood motionlessly listening for the sound of the rifle discharge. When the moment came and I touched the mouthpiece to my lips, I was stunned by how cold it was. I collected my senses then started to play slowly. Just like I was trained. Although only two dozen notes, Taps is so familiar that an error in tone or duration is immediately recognized by everyone in attendance. For my first military service, I didn’t make any mistakes except that I wore the wrong shoes, and I should have wrapped my hand around the mouthpiece to keep it warm. Lessons learned.

As I became more proficient, I wanted to render Taps in uniform which included standing at parade rest, coming to attention, playing the notes and then solemnly rendering a salute. The problem was I was fourteen and not in the military. I learned about Naval Sea Cadets, a national junior military organization. I contacted the local unit commanding officer who was very encouraging. I met the unit members during the next drill and then joined up shortly thereafter. The following summer I found myself with a shaved head in a two week bootcamp doing physical training and classroom instruction. I learned two things immediately at bootcamp.

1. The shape of my head.

2. The military runs a lot.

Shortly after they cut off all my hair, we began to run everywhere. We ran in formation before breakfast. We ran to breakfast. We ran carrying heavy packs before lunch. We ran after lunch. We ran before dinner. We ran after dinner. At the end of the day, I was pretty tired. When I graduated from bootcamp, I was a fourteen year old Seaman Recruit in the Sea Cadets. You don’t get more junior than that in uniform. After not seeing my friends and family for two weeks, my parents surprised me at graduation with a field regulation bugle. I may have been the lowest ranking member in uniform on the planet, but I had a uniform and now a bugle which together allowed me to fulfill missions with full military honors.

I performed Taps in over forty events including playing at Gettysburg as part of the 100 Nights of Taps. I rendered Taps for the Providence Waterfire Salute to Veterans for which I received a citation of recognition from the Rhode Island Speaker of the House. I also performed at military ceremonies honoring veterans of the World Wars and the Korean War. I played at the Vietnam Moving Wall when it travelled to my state. I continued my training with the Sea Cadets attending Petty Officer Leadership Academy at Mass Maritime where I was awarded Honor Cadet.

I am humbled to be able to participate in many high profile events, but it is the personal services for families wishing to honor their loved ones that I remember the most. Shortly after being promoted to Petty Officer, I signed up for a service at a residence. Normally, events are held at a funeral home or cemetery. When I arrived, I was greeted by a smartly dressed woman who thanked me for my service. I tried to explain that I was in high school and a Sea Cadet, but she seemed to be all together elsewhere. She showed me to the backyard where a large group of people gathered. Many told me of their adventures in the military. Eventually, the woman brought me to a table set up with a memorial to the service member. It included numerous pictures of a young man, a Petty Officer in the Navy. I recognized some of the people in attendance in uniform in many of the photos. In all the past events, the military member was advanced in age. I wondered what happened to this young man. As I looked at the pictures, the woman softly spoke,

“He was my boy,” she said.

And she was his mother. I don’t recall the exact words she used, but I understood that a member of the Navy, a shipmate, a brother, a son was another victim of substance abuse. I put all that in the back of my mind as I took my position at the direction of the color guard. I played Taps that day to honor a man not much older than me, a life cut short by a gradual, unceasing tragedy.

Another memorial service was arranged at a site by a river. The military member was a Vietnam veteran. His service documents were not in the possession of his children so they were unable to arrange a color guard. I met many of his family and some of his friends. They asked me about my uniform and were exceptionally encouraging. I learned that he loved to fish at this spot. His son told me that his father’s only wish was to have a bugler play at his funeral. He was unconcerned about the flag being folded precisely or a rifle salute. All he wanted was those twenty-four notes to be sounded by someone in uniform. His son recalled the anguish he felt as the day approached for his father’s memorial, and he hadn’t yet found a bugler. When he discovered BAA online, his request was very short notice. Something told me to do this one. I didn’t know at the time that I would be the only representative of our government present at a military service. I played Taps at the banks of a beloved river against the sound of swift water to honor a combat veteran who honorably served his country.

The path I was on was not supposed to take me where I am today. I ventured into an unknown with the goal to honor the service of people who preserved a way of life for all of us. I met many people in person and in my memory. I learned what is meant by a final commemoration of a life lived well. And in it all I have become a man who knows where he is going and where he has been.

Aidan P. Languedoc

On this Memorial Day, my son's last rendition of Taps in his Sea Cadet uniform was etched into my memory. Next month his junior military career comes to a close as does high school. At summer's end, we'll drive him to nearby Massachusetts where he will attend Worcester Polytechnic Institute, majoring in Computer Science. This was once again one of those experiences that a parent journeys through, perhaps stoically, in the audience of their child's life. It will be a tale I will recite to anyone who will listen. And when the day comes when he will play Taps for me, I know that he will take his place, lift his bugle and carry on to the final note.

And the journey will become his.